


Drabble Anthology

by KiranInBlue



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Familyship - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of TNG drabbles, independent from one another. At the moment, all stories revolve around Data, but this may change in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Data has a question for Troi. Data/Tasha, angst.

_Bee-boop_.

Troi glanced up from the book she was reading and turned to the door of her quarters. “Enter!” she called out.

The doors slid apart, and Data stepped in. His features were arranged in a troubled, perplexed expression; his gaze was cast downwards, with his eyebrows angled sharply, and his lips had pressed tightly together. “My apologies, Counselor. Is this a bad time?”

"Not at all, Data," she replied. "You know my door is open to you at any time."

It had been a month since Data had installed his emotion chip - a long, dynamic month, that had exhausted both Data himself and Counselor Troi. It had turned out that without the emotion chip, Data’s positronic brain had still been formulating emotional responses to events in his life, but had not had the capacity to express that emotion in a way that he could feel or deal with. As a result, now that Data had the emotion chip, he had more than 30 years of emotions and all the refined coping mechanisms of an infant. 

Data’s situation required frequent counseling and psychological support, to the extent that it was impractical to even set up regular appointments - in fact Troi had worried that formal appointments and forced discussion might exacerbate his condition. Instead, they had set up an open-door policy, where Data could visit Troi or a assistant counselor at any time with any question. 

Data still looked slightly uncomfortable, so Troi smiled at him slightly and gestured to the loveseat in front of her. “Sit,” she insisted. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.” 

Obediently, Data crossed the room and sank into the couch. His hands settled on his thighs, and his eyes focused on the floor.

"So," Troi began, after a short moment of silence. "What brings you here?" 

Data paused. “How … would you describe romantic love, Counselor?” 

Troi blinked and straightened slightly. It was a particularly surprising inquiry in itself, but simply not the expected issue at this hour - most frequently, Data’s evening visits were revolved around the issue of family, and particularly, the losses of Lal, Lore, and his father. 

"That’s a difficult question," she replied honestly. "What do you think it is?"

Data’s eyes lifted to hers, and he appeared to consider this painstakingly. “Perhaps … it is a state of relation in which an individual becomes a priority to oneself. It … involves the desire to make said individual an integral part of one’s life experience as a whole.” He paused again. “But emotional language yet exceeds me.” 

"No, that’s very good," Troi assured him. "Some people would also describe it as a warm feeling - a sensation of being light when you’re someone you love, of heightened compassion. It’s also been known to involve seeing one’s interest in an unusually positive light - sometimes overly positive. Most cultures describe it as a sensation that occurs near the heart - in the chest for humans, in the abdomen for Malcorians." 

Data’s head tilted to one side as he processed this information. “I see … ,” he said slowly. “And … what if one were to lose their romantic interest?” 

Troi regarded him curiously. “Well … that’s never a fun experience. Depending on how close they are, a person can feel anything from mild sorrow to deep grief. Many people describe the sensation as an emptiness or hole in their chest that causes physical pain.” Seeing his stricken expression, she added hastily: “There is no actual hole, medically speaking.” 

He inclined his head, and let his eyes sink back to the floor. His fingers laced together in his lap. “…I believe my father’s response to my mother’s death was one of deep grief,” he said after a moment. “I am uncertain about my mother’s response to his death, however.” 

"Your mother had already been separated from Dr. Soong for many years. Most likely, she had already dealt with much of her grief regarding his loss from her life during that time." 

Data nodded.

Troi watched him. When he did not offer anything else for several minutes, she leaned back and spoke quietly: “If you don’t mind … why the curiosity?” While she had her suspicions, she dared not ask directly; if she were wrong, she did not want to dishearten her patient. 

Data lifted his eyes to hers once more. There was a tiredness in his face, making him look older than his aging program had intended. His fingers tightened against the back of his hands, and he inhaled deeply.

"I … believe I am in love," he said finally.

Troi smiled softly, and nodded understandingly. But the happiness she might have otherwise felt at this development in Data’s experiences was tempered by the questions he had asked. She reached out, and when he did not shrink back, she took his hands in hers comfortingly. “Who?” she gently inquired. 

And here, Data’s shoulders slumped, and his eyebrows slanted upwards as he fixed her with a deeply sad, resigned expression. 

"Tasha," he said. "I’m in love with Tasha." 

"Oh, Data …" 

Troi slid onto the couch beside Data, and her arms came around him. He allowed her to pull him close to her, and as her fingers found his hair and began to brush soothingly against his scalp, Data began to sob. And Troi just held him - held and rocked him, and waited for the storm to pass. 


	2. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tasha is sick. Data keeps her company.

Tasha sneezed loudly, half propelling herself out of bed with the force of it. “Ugh … ,” she moaned weakly as she sank back into the pillows. 

Data’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “Are you certain you would not like me to call for Doctor Crusher?” he asked. “You are sneezing with alarming frequently, and you look quite uncomfortable.” 

"I’m fine," Tasha assured him. "It just takes a few days for the treatment for Ankaran flu to take hold - you know that." 

"But perhaps Doctor Crusher can give you something to mitigate the symptoms—…"

Tasha waved him away with a weak whine. “She said it’s best if I let my body fight it off without too much intervention. The fever and sneezing is good for me. Honestly, Data, I’m fine.” 

Data looked unconvinced, but he let it rest. “It is late,” he said after a moment. “I should let you rest.” 

"Don’t go," Tasha replied quickly.

Data looked up in surprise, and Tasha felt heat rise in her cheeks - she hoped fervently it would be indiscernible from the fever flush. The flu was clearly loosening her tongue. 

"It’s just that … well, it kind of sucks being in quarantine. It’s nice to have company I can’t infect." 

Data tilted his head slightly, a curious, but pleased, half-smile gracing his face. “I am gratified to know that you find my company pleasing. However, you must rest.” 

"I’ll rest while you’re here. Besides, I’m too cold to sleep right now." 

"Your temperature is 39.4 centrigrade. You are, by objective measures, quite hot." 

Tasha bit back a smile at the unintended second meaning of his phrasing. “Yes, but when people have fevers, they tend to feel cold,” she explained. “I know it doesn’t really make sense.” 

Data said nothing for a moment, and then he stepped closer. Before Tasha could ask him what he was doing, he had slipped beneath the covers and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest. 

"Data—?" 

"My body heat is similar to that of a human’s. Does this warm you?" 

It didn’t, really, not with the internal chill of a fever, but it felt nice nevertheless. Tasha allowed herself to press up against his torso and let her eyes slide shut. “Yes,” she said. 


	3. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Enterprise-D has its own Valentine's Day traditions. Data-centric, no pairings.

No one quite knows where the tradition comes from. Some say it was inspired by a famous onboard proposal during the Enterprise-D’s first year in space, but no one actually seems to recall who was involved in said “famous proposal”. Others say that Guinan single-handedly led the new ship tradition, but whenever anyone asks, Guinan only smiles. But for about six years now, the morning of Valentine’s Day sees Ten Forward overflowing with flowers, chocolates, cards, and miscellaneous other gifts. Anyone who wants to give a crew member a gift is to leave it in Ten Forward, signed and addressed, and the crew will drop by after their shift to pick up their spoils. Over the years, the piles have grown as more friends catch on to the tradition and take the opportunity to express their appreciation for their comrades. The tradition has become so popular that Guinan has begun to stagger drop off and pick up hours in alphabetical order so that Ten Forward isn’t completely overrun.

And as the tradition grows, so do the legends. Some say that Guinan slips a Saurian brandy into every hundredth cache. Others say that some unnamed Betazoid ensign likes to play Cupid among crewmembers that are well-suited but have never met. Both those stories are unproven, and perhaps nothing more than urban legends. But one legend that everyone can substantiate with their own eyes is that of Data’s monster cache.

Somehow, every single year, Data manages to haul in a ridiculous number of Valentines. Some are from friends, granted, but a remarkable number of his cards are unsigned declarations of hidden affections. For five years running, Data’s hoard of Valentines has vastly outnumbered that of everybody else on board, written by countless ensigns and lieutenants all enamored by gentle, inquisitive nature. The incredible number of Valentines has spawned a betting pool in the last two years – last year, Lieutenant Hank had won with a bet on seventy-eight Valentines. Crew members with nothing to do with the “C and D” time frame of pick-up in Ten Forward stop by, just to count how many Valentines Data got  _this_ year. And if anyone has negative feelings towards the Commander for his popularity, it never lasts for long – there’s always a few new admirers who haven’t yet learned that Data can’t appreciate chocolates, and Data always returns those boxes to Ten Forward for consumption by the rest of the crew.  

Some say Data’s haul is rigged – an ongoing joke orchestrated by a few individuals. Most don’t agree. Others say that Data doesn’t even truly understand the concept of ‘admirer’, and that he thinks all the gifts are from those who just wish to be nice. However, we have it on good authority that Data understands perfectly what is going on. He had to have Troi explain it to him the first time it happened, but he understands now, and if he’d had emotions, he’d be quite flattered and embarrassed (some say he  _does_ feel flattered and embarrassed, emotionless or not). We also know that he writes a polite thank you note to every admirer who signed their name, and one anonymous source states that Data hopes that among all the cards he receives each year, he will one day find one person who can be  _his_ Valentine. 


	4. Father's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Data celebrates Father's Day. Data & Picard father/son familyship. Coincidentally also written on Picard Day.

The children’s art room was abuzz with chatter as Data worked his fingers into his wedge of clay. More children than usual had shown up for the noontime pottery class, which meant that Data was more pressed than usual to squeeze into the small child-size tables provided for the students, and that he had plenty of unusual conversation to keep him occupied as he worked.

“So Sara gave me the crystals but they weren’t the right crystals,” the boy to his right was telling him cheerfully. “Because they were brown crystals and everyone knows that fairies only like white crystals. White crystals taste like vanilla, you know. But brown ones taste like poop.”

Data furrowed his eyebrows and stared at the child. “I am not certain that —,” he began, but the boy had already jumped up from the table, apparently distracted by the glitter glue on the other side of the room. Data watched him go perplexedly.

“Ignore him,” piped up a small voice on Data’s left.

He glanced over to see a small Bajoran girl, around six years old, who was carefully pressing her clay into a crude mug shape. A splash of gray mud stained the tip of her nose, but she did not seem to notice. “Stefan is an idiot,” she continued. “Fairies don’t eat crystals. They use them to build their starships. What they  _eat_  is honey and leaf sandwiches.”

“…I see,” Data replied after a moment, finally deciding against pointing out the fictional nature of ‘fairies’.

“I’m Jita, by the way,” the girl added. “You are?”

“Data.”

“Oh, hi, Data. You’re  _old,_ you know that?”

Data blinked. “It has been twenty-nine years, six months since I was activated. By human standards, I am quite young.”

Jita wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, well I’m  _Bajoran_ , and according to Bajoran rules, you’re  _old_.”

Data simply tilted his head in thought, marveling for the hundredth time that day at the remarkable ‘logic’ that ruled young children’s lives. “…I see.”

“What are you making, by the way?” Jita asked suddenly, peering over Data’s arm to look at his clay.

He lifted it up for her. “I am making a likeness of my cat, Spot.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“It is a traditional name for domestic animals, according to human customs,” Data explained.

“Oh. Humans are funny,” Jita said matter-of-factly.

Data silently agreed. “What are you making?” he asked.

She moved her hands to better present her lopsided mug. “Tomorrow is Father’s Day, and everyone else in my class is doing something, so I made this as a present,” she told him proudly.

He tilted his head slightly. “Father’s Day – the Terran custom of celebrating paternal figures, typically involving recreational sports, food, and gift-giving. Correct?”

“Yeah,” Jita replied. “What are  _you_ doing for Father’s Day?”

“Nothing,” Data replied, his forehead wrinkling with the upward slant of his eyebrows. “My father is dead.”

“So is mine,” Jita said, without so much as glancing up from her work on the mug. “That’s why this is for Uncle Varis, who does everything my daddy would have done, if he and mommy hadn’t died.”

Data’s gaze was fixed on her, his eyebrows still raised in concern. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“It’s okay,” Jita said. “I was a baby. And Uncle Varis takes care of me – he helps me with my homework and explains confusing stuff to me and comes to my music recitals. So I’m making this for him. Do you have anyone who does that kind of stuff for you?”

Data considered this for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I do.”

“Then you should make a present,” Jita told him authoritatively.  

Data inclined his head to one in thought. “….Perhaps. If you do not mind, would you instruct me on making an appropriate gift?”

* * *

The following morning, Captain Picard strode into his ready room at the start of alpha shift, blinking away the last of the previous night’s sleep from his eyes. He approached the replicator and curtly ordered his usual earl gray tea.

When he turned back to his desk, he found, to his surprise, a package wrapped in bright blue paper sitting in the center of the table.

Curious, Picard stepped closer and picked it up. A small card taped to the top of the package declared the package “ _To: Captain Picard, From: Lt. Cdr. Data”_ in Data’s familiar, precise handwriting.

He frowned.

Picard stepped around his desk and sank into his chair as he turned the package over in his hands. When he found the fold, he tugged at the paper and pulled it away from the white box inside, then set the box on the table and opened it.

From within the white box, Picard pulled out a cream-colored mug, expertly crafted and adorned with careful black lettering that spelled out “#1 DAD”.

Picard stared.

But by the end of the evening, the mug was warm with the heat of earl gray tea as it sat patiently on Picard’s bedside table. And, whenever Picard glanced up from his novel to reach for the mug, his eyes gentled at the sight of the careful, hand-painted artistry, and a small, proud smile twitched at his lips. 


	5. Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Data practices human friendship rituals. Geordi doesn't have the heart to correct him. Data & Geordi brOTP, or DaForge if you squint.

_Do-doop._

“Enter!” Data answered.

The door swooshed open, and Geordi entered, dressed in his usual period clothing for their Sherlock Holmes holodeck program. “Data, hey!” he said. “So, I’m off-duty now; I was wondering if you wanted to come visit the holodeck with me? If you’re free, of course.”

“Geordi! You are just in time.” Data looked up from his desk, and for the first time, Geordi noticed the brightly colored string woven between his fingers.

“Just in time…?” he echoed. “For what?”

“I have been researching human customs,” Data replied brightly, making a few rapid knots in the string. “And I have discovered some intriguing practices in respect to close friendships. I decided to explore some of these practices myself. I have made –,” and here he held up the sting for Geordi’s inspection – “friendship bracelets.”

Indeed, Data was holding a skillfully woven bracelet of alternating stripes of red and black, the center of which was threaded with three little white beads bearing the letters “B”, “F”, and “F”.

“This is for you,” Data announced. “And, as tradition dictates, I will wear a matching one.” He pulled back one sleeve a little to show the identical bracelet already wresting on his wrist. 

Geordi stared.

“Did I … do something wrong?” Data asked after a moment, when Geordi did not respond. 

“Uh, not exactly. But, uh, you see, Data, this isn’t really a custom for  _us_ …”

Data frowned slightly and tilted his head to one side, perplexed. “I do not understand. Are we not …,” –and here he paused, as testing the phrase on his tongue – “… ‘best friends forever’?”

“Erm, well …”  _Damn_ , when he put it like that…  “Yeah. Yeah, we are. Okay. I’ll wear it – but just while off-duty today, alright?”

“That is acceptable,” Data said, and expertly tied the bracelet around Geordi’s wrist.

And if Riker caught sight of the bracelet and teased Geordi mercilessly about it for months, well … it had been worth it. Just maybe. After all, every time Geordi saw that little flash of red and black against Data’s wrist, he couldn’t help but smile at the little show of attachment.


End file.
